


Then & Now

by Morgana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgard, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: Things just aren't how they used to be, and everyone can tell.
Relationships: Loki/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 62





	1. Alvida - Then

Alvida could hear the young princes long before she reached the door to Prince Thor’s chamber. She tapped lightly on it and waited until she heard Prince Thor call out, “Come!” to push the door open.  
  
“Well, I was _trying_ ,” she heard Prince Loki grumble as she walked into the room. “But you decided to let the girl in, so -”  
  
Hiding a smile, Alvida went to check on the fire. “Good morning, Your Highnesses,” she offered in greeting as she passed the bed, careful to keep her eyes averted. Still, it was impossible _not_ to catch a glimpse of the two young men, of pale skin and dark hair, and golden skin and long, bright hair. The princes were in a good mood this morning, particularly Prince Thor, who had lowered his mouth against Prince Loki’s neck and growled out something that made Prince Loki laugh.  
  
“Get off me, you oaf. You’ll scandalize the poor girl and then neither of us will get a hot bath for a week,” he teased, and out of the corner of her eye, Alvida could see him give Prince Thor a shove that would have failed to move a house cat.  
  
“Your mother sends word to say that she would be pleased to have the both of you join her in her garden for breakfast,” she told them, rising from the hearth to walk into the bath. The water there was, as always, hot and ready for the princes, needing only a bit of work to lay out towels, soap, and washcloths for them.  
  
Both princes had dragged themselves out of bed by the time she finished in the bath and returned to the main room, and they disappeared into the bath with little more than a nod of acknowledgement in her direction. While the princes bathed, Alvida turned her attention to the bedchamber, changing the linens on the bed, laying out clothes for Prince Thor for the day, and generally putting the room to rights. She’d already been to Prince Loki’s room, had seen that his bed required no attention, and while she was supposed to leave his clothing in his own quarters, she was sure that none would really know or care if they were laid out along with Prince Thor’s.  
  
As she worked, she hummed to herself, more to keep from hearing too many incriminating noises that might drift out of the bath than because she truly enjoyed the song. It was a trick that she’d learned many years ago, when she’d first begun to care for the young princes’ rooms, and one of the reasons she hadn’t yet been dismissed, as so many others had before her - she chose not to see or hear too much, and what she might catch sight of or occasionally overhear, she did her best to forget about as soon as she left the room.  
  
Bundling the used linens up, she tucked them into her basket, walked over to the door of the bath, and rapped on it. “Will there be anything else you require of me, Highnesses?”  
  
A sound that was unmistakably a moan broke off abruptly, followed by a smothered laugh. “No, we’re just fine,” Prince Loki called out. “I’ll see to anything Thor needs, but thank you for asking.”  
  
“Loki!”  
  
Despite her heated cheeks, Alvida smiled at the clear embarrassment in Prince Thor’s voice as she let herself out of the room, certain that her prince was, indeed, in very good hands.


	2. Alvida - Now

Alvida paused outside the door to the common room and tapped lightly, just as she used to. There was no response, but then, there rarely was these days. She counted silently to ten and walked into the room, bowing her head when she caught sight of the figure seated against the wall.   
  
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” she said quietly.   
  
The king offered no greeting in return, merely stared at the windows ahead of him. It was how she found him more often than not - seated on the hard bench, staring out at the sunrise like he loathed the very sight of it. He rubbed his hands together as though he were cold, but Alvida knew that any offer to increase the heat or bring him a blanket would be refused outright.   
  
She set the breakfast tray she carried down on one of the side tables and busied herself pouring both coffee and juice, fussing unnecessarily over the place setting. “Captain Rogers has asked me to tell you that he will gladly see you given more comfortable quarters if you wish,” she stated. “There are a number of rooms not in use, and -”   
  
“No.” The word came out low and shredded, but there was no mistaking the command in it.   
  
Alvida nodded, well aware that it had been a waste to offer, but the Captain had insisted. “Yes, Your Majesty.” She turned around, keeping her eyes lowered. There was no more to do, no room to tend to or bath to prepare - not that the king would allow himself the luxury of one if there were. So far as she knew, he’d done little more than work and sit up through the night since the remaining Asgardians had arrived on Midgard.   
  
Taking a careful breath, she asked, “Will there be anything else you require of me, Your Majesty?”   
  
He let out a broken sound and shook his head, and Alvida tried to tell herself that she wasn’t fleeing as she hurried from the room, suddenly desperate to seek out her son and embrace him. She shouldn’t pity the king, she knew that - he was a mighty warrior, the protector of the Nine Realms and the guardian of Asgard, but when she thought about the solitary meal she had set out that was likely to remain largely untouched, she found that she could do little else.


	3. Hakon - Then

“ - weren’t such an over-muscled oaf who can’t see past the tip of his _hammer_ , then you’d see it, too!”  
  
“The tip of my -”  
  
The sharp _crack_ of Hakon’s long staff across both his pupils’ desks cut off any further argument. “That is enough!” he snapped, glaring at the young men before him, neither of whom possessed the brains to appear even the least bit daunted.  
  
“He started it!” they said with one voice, then scowled at each other.  
  
Hakon drew himself up to his full height and glowered at them. “I don’t care _who_ started it,” he informed them. “You should _both_ be above such lowborn insult-slinging and childish retorts by now.”  
  
Clearing his throat, he held one hand up to forestall the inevitable protestations. “Prince Thor, tell me what a king’s first concern must be.”  
  
“A king’s first concern must always be for the realm and the well-being of his people,” Prince Thor said obediently.  
  
Hakon nodded. “And a king, therefore, should be above taking insult at some drunken or thoughtless comment, correct?” He didn’t wait for an answer, before he turned to look at the smirking younger prince. “And Prince Loki, perhaps if you think yourself so wise, then you could tell me exactly what it was that led to the last Great Elven War.”  
  
The young prince cast his brother a superior look and said, “Of course. It was the theft of Freyja’s feathered cloak by -”  
  
“Incorrect.” Hakon paused to let that sink in before he added, “That is what you will see written in many of the history books, but it was not the true cause, merely the pretense that was cited. The real cause was the Vanaheim ambassador’s disparaging comment about the Alfheim magister’s shoes.”  
  
Prince Loki stared at him, and Hakon took a minute to enjoy having silenced his star pupil’s quicksilver tongue. Finally, the prince said, “Shoes? The whole war started because someone said something about _shoes_ ?”  
  
Hakon nodded. “Indeed. Words, whether spoken in mistaken jest or anger, have great power. And while it is the job of kings and rulers to rise above mere words, it is the job of their councillors to mind the impact and use their own words to make the king’s work easier, rather than harder.”  
  
“What if the king doesn’t have good councillors?” Prince Thor asked. “How does he know if they’re helping him or working for their own purpose?”  
  
Before Hakon could get a word out, Prince Loki said, “That’s why one of us will be king and the other will be councillor, right, Hakon? So we know that there’s at least one person on the council we can trust to tell us the truth so we do the right thing for the realm.”  
  
Hakon smiled and nodded, and Prince Thor reached out to lay his hand on the back of his brother’s neck. “Well said, brother. And I’ll have to hope that either I end up king or you can teach me some of your wisdom, because right now I’m afraid I’d make a pretty poor councillor.”  
  
Prince Loki snorted. “Should it come to that, dear brother, I’ll -” He paused and glanced at Hakon, then smiled and said, “I’ll listen to whatever you have to say, and be grateful for any advice you can offer.”  
  
The words were clearly not what he’d originally intended, but Hakon nodded, pleased to see that this small lesson, at least, was being heeded by his pupil. “Well said,” he told Prince Loki. “And now, both of you, get back to work on your translations. I want to see those pages before we break for lunch.”


	4. Hakon - Now

The king was already seated at the council table when the rest of them arrived. Hakon bowed along with the others, murmuring a greeting, then took his seat on the king’s right, only the empty chair separating them. One by one, the other councillors seated themselves, and they were ready to begin.  
  
A short nod was all it took to have Dr Banner clearing his throat. “The High Council of New Asgard is now in session,” he said, clearly still a little overwhelmed with his new position on the council. “All members present, along with -”  
  
“All but one,” Hakon prompted him quietly. He hated reminding the king of his loss, but as long as the seat was held vacant, the absence had to be recorded.  
  
Dr Banner swallowed and nodded. “All members except one present,” he corrected. “Along with His Majesty, King Thor.”  
  
“Reports?” the king asked, as Dr Banner sat back down.  
  
There was a brief silence, just as there had been with the last several meetings, before Osmund spoke up, offering a report on the buildings that were going up, which were nearing completion and which he’d suggest for the next phase when the current set were finished. Kari followed, with requests from the healers for several men to help with planting and tending the plants that would be needed to treat Asgard’s ills over the coming winter. After she was done, it was Oilis' turn to report on the state of the kitchen and pantry stocks. While they waited for New Asgard’s completion, Stark’s people were supplying the Asgardians with all the food they required, but all were well aware that their king wished to take as little as possible from his absent friend.  
  
Through it all, Hakon watched the king listen to his people’s concerns and make one decision after another, and he wondered if he was the only one that noticed the brief pauses when the king would start to turn to the empty chair on his right. Each time, he stopped himself before he’d barely begun, then offered the answer that was required, and if his words were more clipped than they used to be, Hakon doubted that any there would hold that against him.  
  
It was a short meeting, just as the ones before it had been. Nobody seemed to have the desire to spend hours debating policy or discussing lofty plans for the future, not when they were all still reeling from the Mad Titan’s devastation. Hakon stayed in his seat after they were dismissed, waiting until the other councillors had left before he said carefully, “Your Majesty?”  
  
The king shifted, turning to look fully at him for the first time. “Hakon, you’ve been so quiet these past meetings I almost forget you’re there,” he said, offering him a tired smile. “What can I do for you? Are the scholars in need of something you didn’t wish to bring up in the meeting?”  
  
Hakon shook his head. “No, Your Majesty, but I did wish to speak to you about something, if I might.”  
  
The king gestured for him to continue, reaching up to rub at his right eye as Hakon said, “It’s about the... vacant council seat.”  
  
“I will not be filling my brother’s seat with anyone else,” the king said, his features hardening until they might have been carved from stone. “And those that have a problem with it are welcome to find someone else to fill _their_ seats.”  
  
“It’s not about putting someone else in Loki’s seat,” Dr Banner said, glancing uneasily from the king to Hakon and back. “But having the empty chair right next to you is -”  
  
The king shoved his chair back, the loud screech of metal scraping over marble filling the room. “The matter isn’t up for discussion,” he stated shortly, and walked out.  
  
Dr Banner sighed and looked at Hakon. “Well, that went... about like I expected it to.”  
  
“He doesn’t wish to accept his brother’s death,” Hakon agreed, although he thought there might be more to it than simple denial. He remembered tutoring the royal sons, how they’d frequently spoken of the things they’d do and the changes they’d make when it was ‘our turn to rule’, and he could imagine that the king probably remembered those conversations even more vividly than he did.  
  
“To be fair, Loki’s kinda made a habit of dying without having it stick,” Dr Banner pointed out.  
  
Hakon smiled. “Our younger prince did indeed slip from death’s grip, but the problem with that is that it can draw the... attention of forces that are generally better left alone. And that attention, once roused, isn’t easily lost.”  
  
Dr Banner nodded. “Yeah, I get that.” He hesitated, then asked, “Hey, can I ask you something?”  
  
When Hakon nodded, the man said, “How come I’m the only one who says Loki’s name anymore? I mean, don’t get me wrong, the guy wasn’t exactly my favorite person, but just erasing him the way everyone around here has seems... harsh, y’know?”  
  
“We haven’t forgotten him,” Hakon assured the mortal with a smile. “We forget none of our dead, but the name is a personal thing, and once someone is no longer with us, their name belongs only to them and their nearest and dearest.”  
  
Dr Banner frowned. “So... Thor’s the only one who’s really supposed to say Lo - uh, his brother’s name?”  
  
Pleased as always by both Dr Banner’s quick understanding and his respect of their customs, Hakon nodded. “Of course, we know that not everyone follows our ways. Rest assured that none hold you or your compatriots in any ill esteem because you continue to use it.” He hesitated, then added, “I would even venture to suggest that you continue to do so. I believe - I believe it does our king good to hear his brother’s name on lips besides his own.”  
  
“It might, but even _he_ doesn’t say it,” Dr Banner muttered, but he nodded all the same. “Thanks. I’ll let everybody else know.”  
  
Hakon rose from his chair, following Dr Banner out as he left, but he couldn’t keep himself from turning the mortal’s words over in his mind. Like most of the Asgardians, Hakon had assumed the king wasn’t speaking his brother’s name because the loss was simply too fresh, but after his conversation with Dr Banner, he wondered if the king’s grief could be crippling him in ways none of them could yet see. It was a question that merited consideration, although were it to be true, Hakon knew that it would require a far braver man than he to broach the subject with the king.


	5. Knute - Then

Knute scowled as a sweep from a longstaff nearly took the prince’s feet out from under him. “Maintain awareness of _all_ your opponents, Highness!”  
  
“That might be a bit easier if there weren’t quite so many of them,” Thor called out, head turning one way, then another, desperately trying to keep each of the four warriors he’d been put up against within his sights.  
  
“Enemies won’t be considerate enough to come at you one and two at a time, Highness,” Knute scoffed. “You’re a prize on the battlefield, best get used to that now.”  
  
“And _what_ a prize Asgard’s warrior prince makes, to be sure,” a voice drawled behind him, but Knute didn’t bother to turn around or reply, keeping his focus on the sparring ground before him.  
  
Unfortunately, Prince Thor lacked the ability to concentrate on anything exclusively when Prince Loki was nearby. “A better prize than you, brother!” he shouted out, attacking the two men on his right with a savage swing of his staff, only to end up sprawled on the ground when a blow caught him in the back.  
  
“And now you’re dead,” Knute informed him, striding over to him. A foot on his ass kept him from rising - it was good for all his trainees to spend some extra time in the dirt when they’d been knocked down, and the royal princes were no exception. “In battle, a moment’s inattention is all it takes to see you grievously wounded or worse. Take your eyes off your opponents at your peril, do you understand, boy?”  
  
The prince grunted his assent and Knute gave him a push that rolled him over. “Get up and go again,” he told him.   
  
Walking back to his observation post, he folded his arms and watched as the prince got to his feet. “You’re going to get your brother killed if you can’t keep from taunting him,” he said evenly.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that in a _real_ fight,” Prince Loki protested.  
  
Knute snorted. “Highness, what do you think this _is_? While you’re busy with your magical studies, we aren’t playing games out here; we’re training so that when the ‘real fight’ _does_ come, Asgard’s warriors know what to do. Your brother needs to pick up his weapon and use it without thought, use it like it’s a part of him, because that’s exactly what the men trying to kill him will be doing.”  
  
Out on the training field, Prince Thor had disabled one of the men, but the other three were maneuvering him back towards one of the long troughs. “Awareness, Highness!” Knute reminded him briefly. He said nothing about the trap he knew the others were setting for their prince; more than one of his trainees had ended up taking a ducking or twelve as part of their instruction.  
  
Prince Thor lashed out, planting the butt of his staff squarely in one of the men’s stomachs, then backflipped over the trough, flashing his remaining two opponents a cocky grin.   
  
“Oh, _very_ nice,” Prince Loki commented, while Knute scowled.   
  
“He needs to focus on the fight, not showing off for you.” Prince Thor’s showboating ways whenever Prince Loki appeared on the training grounds were well-known to all, but that didn’t mean Knute was ever going to stop trying to beat them out of the boy.  
  
There was a moment of silence during which he could _feel_ the prince preening just behind him. “Does it matter? He’s doing some spectacular work out there, so is it really important if he’s playing to the crowd just a bit?”  
  
For the first time, Knute took his eyes off the fight and turned to look at the young prince. “It matters,” he assured him. “Because while they’re training, his opponents are all aware that they’re facing their future king. They won’t go for the death blow the way the men he faces on the battlefield will. Any time you or your brother set foot on the training ground, every single man who wields a staff against you knows just who you are and how important you both are to the throne of Asgard. And the men in a ‘real fight’? They’ll know, too, but that’ll just make them all the more determined to kill either or both of you. And if they can't kill you, then they’ll do just about anything to maim you or unman your brother so as to end the royal line of Asgard.” Knute had the satisfaction of seeing the prince flinch, but he didn’t stop. “There will come a day where your brother will have to fight for his life, or for yours and all the lives within Asgard as well. Do you want him to have nothing of substance to rely on, save these acrobats’ tricks and half-trained jabs?”  
  
Prince Loki was pale, but before he could reply, Knute turned around and called out, “Take him down!”  
  
At once, the remaining two men moved in, pinning their prince between their longstaffs. One swept his feet out from beneath him while the other came down on his chest, directly over his heart. Knute looked back at the young prince. “And that’s just how quickly it will happen.”  
  
“Knute, what in the world are you saying to my brother?” Prince Thor asked, grinning as he walked over to join them. “He looks like he’s just been bidden to a Frost Giant’s bed for a month.”  
  
“I think I might prefer that,” Prince Loki murmured. He inclined his head. “Master Knute, my thanks for your time. It was most... instructive.”  
  
Prince Thor frowned as his brother walked away. “Now, what did he mean by that?”  
  
“The prince and I were discussing battlefield tactics, which you need to pay more instruction to if you’re going to stay alive,” Knute told him. “But for right now, you can run through your drills, then go get washed up.”  
  
The prince nodded and went to retrieve his staff and thank his sparring partners, just as he’d been taught. Knute watched him and hoped that his words had gotten through to one of the brothers, even if he wasn’t sure that they’d reached the right one.  
  
When Prince Loki sought him out that night after dinner and asked to start instruction in dagger and close quarters combat, Knute knew they had.


	6. Knute - Now

The clack of wood against wood, the shuffle of feet on the dirt, and the occasional grunt when a strike found its mark seemed to vibrate in his very bones. They were familiar sounds, as well-known as the excitement and terror that thrummed through every warrior before a battle, and Knute smiled as he walked down the ranks of his youngest charges, pausing to correct a stance here or stopping to demonstrate an attack there.  
  
Asgard’s future warriors were a promising lot. The children were eager to learn, just as children always were, and with the newest Valkyries recently branded and inducted into the king’s guard, Knute had found himself with a full roster of trainees. He glanced across the yard, to where the older children were hard at work, the girls sparring against Romanov and the boys exercising under the watchful eye of the Captain.  
  
“Admit it, Stian. You’ll never beat me,” a voice rang out, and Knute sighed. Torvald again, taunting his brother just as he always did.  
  
Although his brother didn’t exactly take it lying down. “Who cares about beating you with a dumb wooden sword? I’ll just wait for you to fall asleep and smash your head in with a rock.”  
  
“You little -” Torvald dropped his sword and launched himself at the other boy, sending him sprawling backwards.   
  
Fists thudded against flesh and Knute hurried over to separate the two of them, hauling Torvald off by the back of his shirt. He gave him a hard shake. “Stop this now! Look at what you’ve done to your brother.”  
  
Indeed, Stian had come out the clear loser in this little battle. Blood gleamed briefly in the sunlight before he swiped his hand under his nose and glared at his brother. “He didn’t really hurt me,” he said, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. “Besides, when Mama hears about it, he’ll get in trouble.”  
  
“Lemme go! I hate him!” Torvald twisted out of Knute’s grasp, his anger inflamed at the clear threat. “I hate you!”  
  
“You stupid beast! I’ll kill you!”  
  
A thunderclap interrupted them, booming directly above the quarrelsome pair, an assault on the eardrums that made both boys scream and drop to the ground, hands clapped over their ears. Knute forced himself to ignore the ringing in his own ears as he turned to look at the king, who stood just a few feet away.  
  
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head in greeting.  
  
The king didn’t respond right away. Instead, he looked at the two boys, now sobbing and reaching out to grasp each other’s hand, clearly terrified out of their minds.  
  
“Just a spat,” Knute told him. “Boys being boys, arguing over nothing, you know how it is.” He cleared his throat, awkwardly aware of exactly _how_ familiar the king was with that situation. Silence stretched out for several minutes while Knute fought the urge to step between the king and the brothers that had offended him. “It never lasts,” he said finally.  
  
The king looked at him, and Knute wanted to fall to his knees and beg his pardon. Because there was one argument that _had_ lasted, or at least, lasted far longer than it should have, and he saw the memory of that reflected in the king’s steady gaze. Knute opened his mouth to say... something, then closed it when he realized that he had no words that could offer anything but more pain to a man who was already carrying far too much.  
  
For a long moment, nobody moved. And then the king sighed. “Brothers shouldn’t fight,” he said heavily, although Knute had no idea if the words were meant for the boys at his feet, for Knute, or for someone that would never be able to hear them.  
  
Before he could offer any reply, the king had turned and walked away. Knute looked down at the sobbing children that had started the whole thing. “Come on, get up,” he told them. “Go wash yourselves up, then come back and we’ll start over.”  
  
It was the same thing he’d been telling the children in his charge for centuries, the same thing he’d told everyone who was beaten - get up, wash, come back and try again. The words were tested and true, and Knute believed in them, lived by them, and taught all his trainees that it was the only course to take when one was knocked down. But now Knute wished, for the first time, that he had some other kind of wisdom to offer, for he’d just seen that there were some wounds that only deteriorated as one moved forward. Or tried to, since he doubted that there really was any 'moving forward' for one as grievously wounded as Asgard's king.


	7. Oilis - Then

Oilis opened the oven door and eased one tray out, setting it on the counter to cool before she slid a second tray in. She’d only recently been promoted to baker’s assistant, allowed to knead and shape the nut bread loves before they went into the oven, and she meant to see to it that there were plenty of perfect offerings for the coming feast. Perhaps if she did a good enough job, she could start helping with the breakfast pastries in a few years.  
  
With the newest batch in the oven, Oilis turned around to check on the ones she’d taken out and found - “Highness, I do believe you’ve been told to stay _out_ of the kitchen,” she said, trying her best to mimic her mother’s sternest get-away-from-my-bread voice.  
  
Prince Loki tilted his head and smiled at her. “To be precise, I was told not to bother any of Yelma’s many talented and hard-working helpers.”  
  
Oilis crossed her arms and gave him an unimpressed look. “And yet here you are.”  
  
“Are you saying I’m bothering you?” Prince Loki looked hurt. “I thought I was welcome anytime.”  
  
“That was when you were _seven_ ,” Oilis pointed out. And a charming scamp he’d been at that age, too. Such big, green eyes and such a sweet, winsome smile... Oilis knew she wasn’t the only one to slip him a treat or two whenever he’d slip down to the kitchens to watch them work.  
  
There were plenty in the kitchen that would welcome the chance to offer him more than a tart or loaf of bread now that he’d grown to manhood, but Oilis knew better than to look so high. Yelma always said that those in the great hall had little use for those in the kitchen, save the work of their hands and the warmth of their bed, “and any girl foolish enough to share that shouldn’t be surprised when the bastard in her belly finds her shipped out to some other hall.”  
  
So far, Prince Loki had done little more than inveigle the occasional kiss along with whatever treat he was after, but he might not always be content with so little. That one was going to be trouble at some point now that the sweet childish features had given way to the lean, angular face of a man. He might not ever tower intimidatingly over men like his brother, but Oilis would wager that more than one woman’s gaze had lingered on those graceful hands and thought of what magic they might work on her body.  
  
Prince Loki moved to lean against the table as Oilis set her loaves out to cool and began to mix another batch of dough. “Come now, Oilis... you wouldn’t begrudge me just one or two loaves, would you?”  
  
“Certainly not. You’re welcome to have all you want -” She smacked his hand when he reached out for one. “Tomorrow night.”  
  
“But they’re better fresh,” he pouted, and she tried very hard not to remember soothing that exact pout with sugared cookies when Prince Thor had gone to Vanaheim with the king for the first time and Prince Loki had sought solace in the kitchen.   
  
Oilis cracked eggs into the bowl, her movements crisp and efficient. “They’ll still be fresh at the feast,” she said, refusing to give in, even a little bit.  
  
Prince Loki sighed. “I’m putting a picnic lunch together,” he admitted. “I wanted to - nut bread would be the perfect treat to finish it off.”  
  
A picnic lunch. With nut bread to finish. Oilis smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “Don’t touch anything,” she ordered the prince. She turned around and went to fetch a basket, filling it with various bits of cold meat, fruit, along with some apple tarts as a special dessert for the young prince. Prince Loki rarely asked for his favorite tarts for himself, but they were the first thing Prince Thor always sought when _he_ showed up in the kitchen looking for sweets.  
  
Once she was finished, she returned to her work station, added two loaves of fresh nut bread to the basket, then gave it to the prince. “Be sure to let your mother know if you’re not going to be home for supper,” she instructed him. “And tell that brother of yours not to eat every last bite in there; he shares with you or he’ll be getting lumpy porridge for a week, understand?”  
  
The young prince laughed and kissed her cheek. “Of course,” he assured her. “Thank you, Oilis!”  
  
She watched him hurry off with his prize, no doubt to find his brother and crow about the picnic feast that awaited them. Of course, Prince Thor was probably off somewhere charming something else for their little getaway from someone - perhaps a blanket from the weavers or a particular mount from the stables. Whatever it was, she had little doubt that he’d succeed, just as his brother had with the nut bread.  
  
It always had been Prince Thor’s favorite treat; Oilis just hoped that after stuffing himself on it at the picnic today, he’d still want some at the feast that was being held in honor tomorrow.


	8. Oilis - Now

“He hasn’t rung for his tray.”  
  
Oilis didn’t even bother to look over at the young girl who’d spoken. “He won’t, and it’s not your business to worry about it. You go get those dishes washed like I told you to half an hour ago.”  
  
She heard the girl murmur an assent before she moved off, but Oilis’ attention was focused on the tray before her. It was a meal fit for a king - steak that was cooked so it was a perfect, tender pink inside, fluffy, buttery potatoes, crisp peas in the pod and a hearty green salad, with ripe tomatoes and plenty of fresh vegetables mixed into it. She poured coffee into a carafe and set a jug of mead next to it, added her special offering and picked the whole thing up.  
  
Marching through the halls of their temporary lodgings, Oilis made her way to the large room that the king always frequented at sunup and sunset. She didn’t knock to announce herself, just eased through the door and walked over to the table to set the tray down, then turned to face the king. “Majesty,” she greeted him, bowing her head.  
  
He sighed. “You really shouldn’t have bothered.”  
  
“There was no bother in it, Majesty,” Oilis assured him, briefly tempted to box his ears. But what was allowed with princes sneaking down to the kitchen for sweets and what was allowed with kings who chose not to eat were two very different things, even if perhaps they shouldn’t be.  
  
When he said nothing else, only turned his attention back to the large windows, where the sun was beginning to set, Oilis sighed, picked the tray up again, and walked over to place it on the bench beside him. “Your supper, Majesty,” she announced, fully prepared to pretend she hadn’t understood him if he grew angry at her presumption.  
  
Of course, he didn’t get angry with her. He hadn’t been angry or happy or... anything, really, not that any of them had seen, not since they’d arrived here on Midgard. He merely stared down at the tray for a long moment, then reached out and parted the napkin, revealing the freshly baked loaf. “Nut bread,” he said softly.  
  
“Your favorite,” Oilis reminded him. He’d always loved it, although _he’d_ never been the one pestering her for it. The queen would order it for feasts, and invariably, it was the young prince that would appear at her side to wheedle and cajole a few extra loaves from her so he could surprise his brother with them.  
  
The king nodded. “Yes,” he agreed absently, but he didn’t reach out for it.  
  
Once upon a time, Oilis would’ve told him that bread didn’t bite and he would’ve laughed and teased her in return. Once upon a time, he would’ve snatched it up with a glad cry as soon as it was uncovered and he smelled it. But then, once upon a time, it would have been a gift from his brother.  
  
She wished she could offer at least a little solace to the prince she’d once known, the bright, sunshine boy who had never failed to slip an apple tart in his pocket whenever he visited the kitchen, even though he didn’t actually like apple tarts. But that prince was gone now, replaced by the king, the grim, terse man that seemed to neither need nor desire sleep, food, companionship, or any other creature comfort. And one didn’t have to be a genius like Hakon to realize that the king would accept consolation from no living soul.  
  
Instead, Oilis bowed her head once more and said, “Enjoy the nut bread, Majesty,” before leaving him alone with his supper tray. It would undoubtedly come back, almost completely untouched, in an hour or so, but there was little she could do about that.


	9. Thor - Then

By the time the sun rose tomorrow, he would be king. Thor closed his eyes and pictured the day ahead of him - the throngs of people, the resounding cheers and applause, the sumptuous feast, the huge golden throne, and, of course, the warmth and approval of his parents’ blessing. He could almost feel the pride gleaming in his father’s eye and the love radiating from his mother’s face, and while both would be sweet, nothing could possibly be better than Loki’s surprise when Thor took his seat and issued his first order as king.  
  
He’d been planning it for decades - centuries, even, and he wasn’t going to let anything rob him of that special moment. Asgard’s laws were clear on the matter: once crowned, only death or abdication could remove him from the throne, and Thor had no plans to die anytime soon. Abdication... well, that would be a last resort, but he doubted it would be necessary. A king had the right to choose his own consort, after all.  
  
Oh, his choice would be a shock, he had no doubt of that, but given time, surely his people would understand. Mother might be surprised (although sometimes he wondered just how much she knew) but she loved him and wanted only his happiness, he was sure of that. He was less sure of what Father would say, but Thor was to be king tomorrow, and a king didn’t let fear of a parent’s disapproval stop him from doing what was right. And if what was right was also pleasurable, then that just made the doing of it all the better.   
  
Thor laced his fingers together behind his head, smiling as he imagined making his announcement. Everyone would be watching him, but he would only be looking at his brother. He wanted to see the surprise move over those fine features, see his beautiful green eyes widen that tiny fraction like they always did on the rare occasions he was caught off-guard in public. After the surprise would come the pleasure, the softening of his face and glow in his eyes that was only ever just for Thor. He’d move up the steps to take his place by Thor’s side, and -  
  
“You can’t possibly be asleep this early.”   
  
Thor’s smile broadened as he opened his eyes to see Loki standing at his bedside attempting to look stern and disapproving. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, unable to resist teasing his brother with the knowledge that only he possessed. “It’s bad luck to see me tonight.”  
  
Loki snorted. “That’s for superstitious fools who are wedding, not imbecilic oafs who are being crowned,” he pointed out, setting the candle he carried on the bedside table. He shed his dressing gown and gave Thor a pointed look. “Move over.”  
  
“Why, so you can put your cold feet on me?”  
  
“Of course.” As soon as he shifted to one side, Loki slid beneath the coverlet and pressed up against him, no doubt relishing the harsh breath Thor sucked in when Loki’s feet tangled with his own. The season never seemed to matter - Loki’s feet were always cold, whether in the depths of winter or the height of summer, and they always provided a convenient excuse for Loki to seek him out.   
  
Thor wrapped his arms around his brother and soon-to-be consort. “I wasn’t sure you’d come to me tonight, given that tomorrow -”  
  
“You’re being crowned king?” Loki pushed him onto his back, slotting up against his side. “Come, brother, you had to know that it was always your destiny.”  
  
He did, but he also knew that Loki sometimes cast wistful glances at the throne when he thought he was unobserved. “I don’t want this to come between us.”  
  
Loki tweaked his nipple. “Idiot. It would take far more than a mere _throne_ to come between us, you should know that.”  
  
Thor winced and rubbed his abused chest. “Indeed, but I would have it said all the same.”  
  
A faint puff of air crossed his skin as Loki sighed and shifted, propping himself up to look down at Thor. “Very well, then. Hear me now, brother, and pay close attention, for I won’t repeat this - I am your loyal and loving subject, your bound liegeman for life, come what may.”  
  
The words, so close to the oath of fealty Loki would take (or thought he would take) tomorrow, sent a shiver down Thor’s spine, and he tugged Loki up for a kiss. “Mine, now and always,” he whispered against Loki’s lips.  
  
His brother nipped him, then gave him a wicked smile. “Now, how about I show you just what kind of service I plan to offer my king?”  
  
Thor groaned as his body immediately responded to the dark purr of his brother’s voice, just as it always did. He twined his fingers in Loki’s hair and pulled him in for a harder kiss. “I think I’m going to like this business of being king if it comes with benefits like that...”


	10. Thor - Now

The day had been a long, grueling one, beginning with the moment he’d emerged from his chamber to find the sun had been up for hours. He seldom missed a sunrise these days, but today... today had been different. Today he hadn’t wanted the sun to shine on him. Today he hadn’t deserved it.  
  
It was over now, though. He’d done his duty by his people and his kingdom, had ensured that they would be safe and taken care of, come what may. He’d conducted himself with the pride and dignity that befitted a son of Odin _(the only remaining son)_ and in return, he’d been gifted with the sight of both gratitude and sympathy in his people’s eyes as he’d presided over the feast that night.  
  
And what a feast it had been. The tables had groaned beneath the weight of the food. Oilis had outdone herself - nut bread, roasted meats, honey-glazed fruit, and baked delicacies of every description... including apple tarts. He’d asked for those, his one request, a silent, reproachful reminder to himself of what this day should have been, and while his plate had been piled high with food, the tarts had been the only thing he’d eaten through the entire feast.  
  
They’d tasted like ashes, just like everything else over the past year. He’d done his best not to show it, had watched the entertainment, listened to the songs and stories even if he hadn’t joined in the way he once would have, and when the night was fully fallen, he’d risen and urged the feast to continue, then at last taken his leave of his people.  
  
Only once his door was closed behind him and he was alone again did he allow himself to truly think about the day. His wedding day. It should have been very different, should have been a day of laughter and love, with a night of sensual wonder to follow, and once upon a time he had believed it would be. But then, he’d also believed that he would be marrying for love just as his father and grandfather had before him. Instead, he’d followed the paths of other monarchs who wed out of cold duty and obligation to their people.  
  
He tried to tell himself at least he was fortunate in that his bride knew his circumstances and understood. It was the reason he’d chosen her, because he’d known that she would have no expectations of him, and he felt sure his people understood, for none had spoken out against his choice. There had been silence as they’d spoken their vows, exchanging pledges of loyalty rather than love, promises of friendship instead of faithfulness, and when he’d listed his titles _(King of Asgard, Odinson, Royal Consort of Jotunheim, God of Thunder)_ his bride had merely nodded before offering up her own in reply _(Brunnhilde, Valkyrie, Chooser of the Slain, Bright Battle, Pain in the Ass)_ and he’d nearly laughed at the thought of his brother’s smirk if he’d heard her claim the appellation that he’d often gifted her with over the course of their too-brief acquaintance.  
  
That had hurt even more than the betrayal of his marriage, the thought that laughter and merriment could ever reenter his world, that he could ever cease to feel the loss of his brother, his lover, his other self. It was unthinkable, and had he not had to declare at that moment that the children of his bride’s body would be children of his heart, he might well have decided to call the entire farce off. But that had been enough to remind him of why he had to do this, that Asgard might have heirs to carry on the throne and traditions after him. The royal line of Odin would end with him, but Asgard must not, so he had carried on, had exchanged swords with her, walking through the remainder of the ceremony and feast with the same dogged determination that had shadowed every one of his days from the moment he’d failed to exact retribution for all that the Mad Titan had taken from him.  
  
Safe in the knowledge that none would disturb him in his chambers unless there was dire need, he rid himself of his wedding finery, preparing for bed. He neither knew nor cared who might share his bride’s bed, so long as they were good to her, but for himself, there would be no other lovers until he was reunited with his brother in Valhalla. For a fleeting moment, he could almost hear those familiar mocking tones commenting on his self-inflicted celibacy and the suffering it would bring, but the last hands and lips to touch him had been his brother’s, and he couldn’t bear the thought of replacing those with others which could only be an inferior shadow of the ones he truly wanted. So far as he was concerned, his true consort was the one he’d been denied years ago, and none could ever take his place.  
  
He washed in water _(cold, always cold, so he could share this small sensation with his brother)_ and slid into the narrow, lonely bed that had been his since he’d arrived in New Asgard. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and dream, whether of days past or days that would never be, but after today, after he’d betrayed every oath he’d ever given his brother, both spoken and silent, he didn’t deserve the ease of sleep. Just like he didn’t deserve to see the sun ever again.  
  
Outside, the first droplets of rain pattered on the ground.


End file.
